Sorry that I haven't updated the Ascended Fallen or Power of Insanity again yet, but Real Life got in the way, along with a writing block that I'm somewhat suffering under with regards to those stories.
On the bright side, at least I can write at all still, so the block's gotten better, which is good... I suppose.
A quick note about this story – I have no idea if I'll keep going with it. It wasn't actually supposed to end the way it did. In fact, the whole prophecy bit in the beginning wasn't even supposed to be in this thing – it was meant for a different story, inspired from one too many Harry Potter/Percy Jackson and the Olympians crossovers.
However, if you wish it to continue to some kind of semblance of an ending, I will see what I can accomplish. Even if I do continue it, though, others are free to continue this if they feel like it. If you do adopt the story, however, just keep in mind that I may decide to keep writing it, and I would prefer you not to just rip the whole thing off of me. Try to base the story off the beginning, please.
It's just a personal preference. Thanks.
Regardless, like I said, this thing wasn't supposed to end the way it did. This was just supposed to be a kind of character analyses based on the idea of what it would have been like if Harry had still loved the Dursley's despite everything they did to him. Unfortunately, towards the end, something... happened, and I'm not quite sure what it was, exactly, because quite frankly I don't remember much.
Just evil cackling that sounded suspiciously like my muse and a whistling of air, and then looking at the ending of the story kind of confusedly because I had no idea where the last scene even came from and something told me not to mess with it or my headache would get worse than it already was...
I can hear my muse laughing right now, and it's not a pretty sound, so I'm going to leave you all to enjoy this bit of writing that came out of somewhere that I no longer wish to think about, and ask you all to review.
The Rise of the Sea's Phoenix
As the world approaches the end of its life
A hero steps into the light.
Born to the one who thrice defied Him
Born as the Sea's greatest champion.
And the Darkness of Time will mark him as equal
But the Dark One will waiver at a time of choice
And either must choose the lives of the other
For neither truly lives while the other survives.
A storm of rain and ice collide
To hate or love they must decide
A single choice to end their ways
Olympus to preserve or raise.
Sometimes he hurt. Sometimes he was too numb to hurt. Other times, he wasn't sure what the feeling was. Regardless, it hurt, more often than not, when they turned their backs on him.
His relatives could be very cruel with their rejection.
It was hard not to hate them for it.
For that very reason, he refused to hate them. Ever. At all. Because that meant that they won. It meant that they had somehow gotten to him. And so, he loved them. It was pointless, he knew. They would never love him back. But he wouldn't let that stop him. They were his relatives, and he would love them as they should have loved him, even if they didn't deserve it.
He noticed, as time went on after he had pledged this to himself, that his relatives had started to avoid him, especially as he began to smile openly at them, even as they sneered. He found himself happy when their sneers faltered in the face of his smile.
He used to think that meant that he was changing them.
He later learned he was wrong, but he still refused to give up. He would love them. He did love them, actually – whatever place he may have pulled it from, it could not be denied that he loved his relatives, despite all that they did to him, despite all that they didn't do for him, despite everything that had happened between them all. One could see the gentle, willing love that shone in his green eyes beneath bangs of ebony hair every time someone mentioned the Dursley family.
They always mentioned the family with something bordering on disgust, and he would always defend them – never their actions, never what they did, but they themselves – and people would stare at him, confused, no doubt thrown by the fact that this boy was defending the very people who told others that he was a delinquent. But whenever he spoke up in defense of his relatives, people took the time to look at him – his bright green eyes that shone with an inner light of gentle happiness despite the bruises and cuts that covered him, his long, ebony hair that hung from his shoulders in tangled, messy waves that somehow framed a small, pale face perfectly – a face that was serene and tranquil, even when it had a bruise or cut marring the otherwise perfectly white skin.
And people looked at him, and started wondering.
This, of course, made him happy, although he disagreed with these people when they asked him, very nicely and with concern, whether his relatives abused him. He knew he wasn't abused – neglected heavily, perhaps, but never outright abused. And when they asked him why he always had bruises, was always covered in small cuts and scrapes and scabs, he looked at them and shrugged his shoulders, saying that children were often cruel and filled with insecurities, and who else could they pick on to make them feel better then he himself?
They always looked so disturbed at his light acceptance of this fact.
He did accept it. He didn't find anything at all disturbing about it. He certainly considered it wrong, but he knew that it was the way of the world, of humans, and so he would stop it when he could, and know that it wasn't his fault when he couldn't.
One night, however, everything went wrong.
Oh so terribly wrong...
It was a normal night. Dinner was over, and he was doing the dishes, humming to himself quietly. His relatives were watching TV in the next room.
There was a knock on the door. He heard a grunt, and heavy footsteps , knowing that Uncle Vernon was getting the door so that he didn't have to deal with his own nephew.
A sad smile crossed his face. That was okay, he was used to it.
Then, the world turned inside out.
A crack-like boom. It was a gunshot. Terror. Shouts. Screaming, Aunt Petunia was shrieking in panic. Sobs, he thinks it's Dudley, crying in terror. Something orange flickers in his vision, more screams, heatheatheat it's hot, he can barely breathe...
Blankness.
Consciousness. He stares at the ashes of what had once been a house, now just a pile of charred remnants between houses number 2 and 6 on a street called Privet Drive. Despair.
His hands feel warm. He looks at them and recoils, the flickering flames surrounding his fingers, clinging to his skin like hot, glowing orange gloves.
He stares around, feeling something wet on his cheeks, the current situation and numbness from shock keeping him from comprehending what this simple wetness was, or why he was surrounded by ashes when he should have been surrounded by walls.
It hit him, like a million trains all at once. He screams, the pain, the anguish, the self-loathing, painpainpain, hisfaulhisfault this-was-his-fault, deaddeaddead, they-were-gone, they-were-dead. Dead.
WHY?!
He screamed, and he screamed, and his voice gave out and he kept going, still screaming, mouth open, no noise coming out, a waterfall down his face, and he lay on the ground in anguish, the pain ripping through him constantly, relentlessly, wishing for someone, anyone to save him from himself.
Nobody came.
Nobody saw.
Nobody cared.
That night, on the eve that a fire destroyed the home of Privet Drive, Harry Potter collapsed in despair upon the remnants of his old home, nothing but a little boy, and rose, from those very same ashes, still just as young in age but no longer child-like, no longer full of wonder, his innocence ripped away in the tide of a fire of his own making.
That night, as Harry Potter's tears finally ran out, the boy looked at his hands, and made a vow upon the very same flames that still swirled around his fingertips.
These hands have destroyed the ones who should have been protected because these hands were untrained. Therefore, to use these hands to properly, these hands must know how to be used.
I will learn to use this power, so that I will never do anything like what I did to you ever again, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley.
I swear this on the fire that burns within me and my hands.
And the path was set, Destiny foiled, and Fate bowed her head in defeat as Hope raised her frail face upwards and smiled a smile meant only for those who have seen light for the first time after years of darkness.
This is the story of one Harry James Potter, Prophecy Child, and how, having risen from the ashes, he became a fiery tide to cleanse the world.
This is the Rise of the Sea's Phoenix.